Redamancy
by Psicygni
Summary: "Eutony," Nyota says. "The pleasantness of a word's sound." "Logolepsy," Spock counters. "A fascination or obsession with words." "Fascination? Sounds like someone I know."


"Iktsuarpok. The feeling of anticipation that leads you to keep looking outside to see if anyone is coming. It's Inuit, I think."

The sunlight streams through the window of the small café and he has to blink as he looks up at her from the counter where he has chosen seats for them.

"Why does one not simply wait until the time the visitor is expected to arrive?"

"What if they're late?" She drops her bag on the floor and pulls out the stool next to his. As she does so, she brushes close enough to his leg that he imagines he can feel the fabric of his pants shift. "Although, I guess Vulcans probably aren't late very often."

"It is quite rare."

"Anyway, you were totally looking for me," she says with a grin.

"I was simply attempting to ensure that we found each other."

"And that we got seats together." She nods to the other tables that are already full despite the early hour.

"And that," he admits.

"Not staring around for me at all."

"Have some tea," he says and she laughs.

She takes the chai he purchased along with his own _theris-masu_. She holds her hair back with both hands as she bends over the cup to inhale, the steam from the tea rising and curling around her.

He looks away only when she looks up at him.

"What're you working on this morning?"

She pulls her homework from her bag as he tells her. When she peers at his padd, her hand tipping it so that she can better see, he does not let himself lean towards her.

"Will you send me that citation?" she asks, pointing.

Her finger leaves a smudge on the screen, one which he does not wipe away.

…

"Andorian," she says.

"Organian."

"Cardassian."

"Bjoran."

"Romulan."

"Klingon," he says so that she will laugh.

"Spock! That is not a language that sounds nice." She shakes her head as her fingers circle the rim of her empty mug, her mouth stretched in a smile. "Doesn't make the list, no way, not even top twenty. Or top hundred."

He thinks, of everyone, she could manage to make it sound agreeable.

"Eutony," she continues. "The pleasantness of a word's sound. It's important. And wonderful."

"Logolepsy," he counters. "A fascination or obsession with words"

"Fascination? Sounds like someone I know. And logolepsy is better than hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia."

"Though that is not a word, I must compliment your enunciation."

"Thanks. And it totally is."

"The correct term for fear of long words is sesquipedaliophobia."

"Spoilsport. It's all about how it _sounds_ and hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia sounds better." She props her chin on her hand and her expression softens. "Sprachgefuhl. The character or spirit of a language. It makes me miss speaking Swahili."

"Maneno mazuri kama maua yana rangi yake," he says carefully in her native tongue, still uncertain when he speaks it.

Her eyes are bright when she repeats the phrase in Standard. "'Nice words are like flowers: they have their own color.' Your pronunciation is great. And, it's so true. I just love how they all sound."

"Even Klingon?"

She kicks the rung of his stool. "Even Klingon. You know, I used to want to learn every language. Literally, all of them. Gapeseed: an unattainable, impossible, idealistic aspiration. That's a good word. Gapeseed."

"That would make you an altitudinarian."

"Altitudinarian?"

"Someone who has set lofty goals." He glances at the padds they have long since pushed aside. "I find that of anyone of my acquaintance, you are perhaps the most likely to be able to achieve such a difficult objective."

She ducks her head, looking down into her mug.

"Wa'paitaren du," she says in Vulcan. "Thanks."

They are silent for a long moment and he is on the verge of offering to get them more tea when she speaks.

"Do you want to get some fresh air or something? I know we normally stay and work, but it's so nice out."

"Yes," he answers in a rush. He attempts greater composure before speaking again. "That would be pleasant."

…

"Komorebi," he says, gesturing towards the way the light filters through the leaves above them.

"I didn't know you spoke Japanese."

Their arms, for not the first time during their walk, brush against each other's.

"A few words."

Sunlight, tinted from the foliage, plays across her face and she spreads her arms and smiles up at the sky.

"Yeah. Komorebi. It's beautiful."

"Yes." He swallows. "Quite."

…

"Water under the bridge."

"Bees knees."

"Holy cow."

"Train of thought."

"In a pickle."

"Quit cold turkey."

"Pipe down."

"Kitty corner."

"These must make you want to cut and run back to Vulcan."

"I believe the expression would be that they drive me nuts."

She is leaning back on her elbows, her long legs stretched out on the grass in front of her and crossed at the ankle. When she tips her head back and laughs, he cannot quite keep his gaze from sweeping over the graceful length of her throat.

"Pistachios? Walnuts?"

"Almonds," he supplies, looking away again.

"Peanuts."

"They are a legume."

"Does it even matter if they're all from a replicator?" she asks, hooking her index finger around a stray lock of hair that has blown into her face. "Six of one?"

"I have seen you eat non-replicated peanuts and I very much doubt you would stop after a half dozen."

"Very funny, Spock," she says, her tone wry.

"Agelast."

"Agelast?"

"One who does not laugh at jokes."

"That's like a half Vulcan calling a…" Her brows draw together as she pauses. "Calling a… oh, whatever. Pot. Kettle."

"Perhaps that phrase is not a reference to hypocrisy but a prompt to clean one's cookware."

"Have you ever left a dish dirty for more than thirty seconds?"

"Yes."

"Really. Do tell."

"One evening, I invited over-"

"-Oh, _please_," she groans, her eyes shining.

"That was far longer than thirty seconds."

"It was a _bowl_. That I used to _cook_. And we were _eating_," she says, tapping his knee with the toe of her boot. "Oh, ow. Obdormition."

"Latin. Numbness in a limb. Your leg has, as humans say, fallen asleep?"

"My foot." She frowns as she works her ankle in circles.

"Perhaps it is a harbinger that it is time to continue onwards."

"Oh. Are you busy today? Am I keeping you?" She asks the questions quickly, dropping her foot down and sitting up.

"No."

"Oh," she says again. "Good." She shifts to sit cross legged, mirroring his own pose. "I don't want to cut short my chance to apricate."

"Apricate?"

"To bask in the sun."

"Ah. Heliophilia, then. Quite similar, referring to the love of being in the sun."

"Precisely. You, however, must still be freezing cold," she says, leaning back on her hands.

He glances down at the jacket he has not removed, a stark difference to how she divested herself of her own as soon as they sat down.

"Not literally."

"Still. Are you ever warm here?"

"In my apartment."

"Hmm, that was nice. But even with the single dirty dish? Doesn't mar the enjoyment?"

"Even so," he says and when she smiles, he lets himself smile back.

…

"Lignin and terpene."

"Hmmm?"

He watches over her shoulder as she turns another page.

"The smell of old books. Those are the compounds that create it."

"I wish paper books were still the norm," she sighs, trailing her fingers across the binding as she closes the book. "My grandparents have a whole shelf of them."

He reaches above her for a different volume at the same moment she turns to replace the one she is holding.

"Sorry," she says as her shoulder bumps into his chest. She moves as if to take a step away, off balance, but not before he automatically steadies her with a hand on her arm.

She looks up at him as he looks down and in the stillness that stretches between them, he is aware of the peculiar silence of the store, the softness of her sleeve and the slimness of her arm, the catch in her breath and the flutter of his heart he grows increasingly certain is audible.

Her stomach rumbles, overly loud in quiet.

"Oh god," she says, stepping back and putting one hand over her abdomen, the other on her cheek. "That was embarrassing."

"Borborygmi."

"There's a word for that sound?"

"Yes. If you are hungry, would you perhaps like to have lunch?"

She smiles, wide and brilliant, dropping her hand from her face. "Yes."

…

"Don't tell me." She frowns at the table. "I can remember."

"Anomia. The inability to recall the name of an object."

She grins, pushing her empty plate aside and continuing to stare at the wet ring left by her sweating glass of water. "It's not that. Ok, it is maybe it is that a little bit. But there's a word for this and I know it and I'm going to remember it any second now."

"Pana Po'o."

"What? That's not it."

"It is a Hawaiian word that describes the act of scratching one's head to help remember what is forgotten. Perhaps such an action would aid in your recollection."

She bites her bottom lip, still smiling. "Hush, you." Her smile changes into a grimace before she releases a frustrated sigh. "This is like that first day of your class last year when you called on me. My mind went completely blank."

"And yet you supplied the correct answer."

"Roseau's interpretation of xenocultural relativity."

He blinks. "You remember."

"Yeah," she says softly. "Of course."

He straightens his unused knife, lining it up with the edge of his placemat.

"That was an enjoyable semester."

"It was. I loved that class."

"I am not sure that this year's cadets are quite as enthusiastic."

"You just don't like that Andorian who keeps asking question. Pochemuchka. It's Russian, I'm pretty sure. Someone who ask lots of questions. I've never heard you complain about a student so much. Or ever, actually."

He allows himself a small smile. "I believe your presence invalidates any notion that I dislike students who pose an above average number of questions each lecture. Furthermore, I was not complaining."

"If you weren't complaining, then I'm not a poche- Cualacino!" she says, slapping her hand on the table. "The mark left by a cold glass. It's called a cualacino."

"Spanish?" he guesses, taking his napkin off his lap and wiping it away.

"Italian."

"Ah. Well done."

"You know what word is Spanish? Sobremesa."

"Dessert?"

"Only in Portuguese. In Spanish it refers to the time spent in conversation after a meal."

"I find I prefer the Portuguese definition."

She narrows her eyes at him. "I knew you liked ice cream when I made you try it, even if you refused to admit it."

…

"Nepenthe. Something which can make you forget grief or sorrow. Is that not a common application of sweetened, frozen dairy products?"

"Only after that horrible Kobayashi Maru test that someone programmed," she says with a glower at him that she cannot seem to quite maintain. She scrapes her spoon over the rapidly softening scoop in her cup. "I prefer getting it just because. It is far more pleasant."

"I agree," he says as he takes another bite.

He hands her a napkin and she sticks her spoon in her ice cream as she attempts to wipe off what has melted onto her hand. She fumbles, her hands too full. When he reaches to take the cup from her, their fingers graze over each other's and heat jumps between them at the contact.

"Thanks," she says softly, as he slowly pulls back. "Um, thanks."

When her hand is clean and she reaches for her ice cream, it is difficult to refrain from letting their fingers touch again.

…

"Ostranenie. I like that one. Encouraging someone to see something familiar as something strange, wild, or unfamiliar." She leans against the railing of the viewing platform they have walked to and gestures to the Golden Gate. "We see it everyday and we forget how stunning it is."

The wind snaps her hair into him, so that it sweeps across his arm and she laughs as she tries to restrain it.

"Sorry," she says, tying it back and looking up at him. "But you know what I mean? Beauty that we become immune to through the tedium of exposure?"

"I do not believe so," he answers, watching the way she sweeps the last loose strands of hair behind her ears.

"What?" she asks but he does not answer. "Um, floccinaucinihilipilification. That's another great word. The act of deciding something is useless."

"The length of that word may very well fall under its own definition."

He is unsure if he moved closer or if she did, but when she laughs again, her shoulder shaking slightly, it presses against his arm.

"Guess there's no sunset tonight. Oh, that's a good one. Advesperascit. The approach of evening."

"It is suddenly rather brumous."

"Brumous?"

"Foggy," he explains, then glances down at her, raising an eyebrow. "Logastellus. One whose love of words is greater than their knowledge of words."

She jostles her shoulder against his, grinning at him before her expression eases into something more serious.

"Spock?"

"Yes?"

"Remember your office hours last year? That first time I came and we talked for like two hours?"

"One hour and fifty three minutes."

She splays her hands out on the railing, studying them closely.

"Do you know what koi no yokan means? It's Japanese."

"I do not."

"It's, um…" She glances out over the bay. "Well, it's more or less the feeling you get when you meet someone and you know that you're going to develop an… attachment to them. Build a relationship. When you just know that before really knowing them." Her hands tighten on the rail. "I'm just… I'm glad we're friends."

"Yes," he says, resting his hands near hers. "I am as well, Nyota."

"I always have a good time with you."

"That has also been my experience."

"Good," she says, nodding. "I just wanted to tell you that."

Their eyes meet for a long moment.

"Thank you."

She resumes watching the bridge and they lapse once more into silence.

"Um, Spock?"

"Yes?"

She is staring at her hands again.

"I also…" She takes a deep breath and presses her lips into a thin line. "I also wanted to tell you, or actually to ask you, if, um…"

She lets out a faint laugh and shakes her head.

"Nyota?"

"Schwellenangst."

"Schwellenangst?" he asks.

"Schwellenangst."

"The fear of crossing a threshold or of trying something new?"

"Yeah." She nods, not looking at him. "That."

He feels a thrill run straight through him and has to collect himself before speaking again. "May I ask in reference to what, specifically?"

"Specifically?" She pulls her upper lip between her teeth. "Um, torpe."

He blinks. "Pardon?"

"It's Tagalog."

"Tagalog?"

"It's a Filipino language."

"I see."

"Torpe means, well, it basically means being shy. Specifically, um, … specifically regarding the difficulty of admitting that you are attracted to someone." Her words are hurried and she visibly stills herself, her chest rising as she takes a deep breath, and then another one. "Which is what I've been meaning to tell you. For a while, now. And I don't know if that's ok, but uh..." She stares at the bridge and swallows. "I think that maybe it is."

"I understand," he says, his pulse pounding, his blood rushing in his ears.

He searches for words as she looks up at him, and as she looks away, swallowing again.

"Alexithymia," he says.

"Alexithymia?" she asks, inspecting her hands.

"The inability to express one's feelings. Nyota, I…" He struggles for what to say, his stomach jumping. "Forgive me, please. This is not easy for me to articulate." He shakes his head, frustrated, and she turns to look up at him. "That does not, however, indicate a lack of the sentiments you expressed. In fact, rather the converse."

"Spock?" she breathes, her eyes wide and dark.

"I…" he starts, searching for words he does not have. "Nyota, I…"

He shakes his head again, sliding his hand along the rail and lays his fingers over hers. Heat arcs between them and she looks down at their hands, breaking into a broad smile. Something in his chest loosens.

"Oh. Oh, um, good. That's good."

"Nyota-"

"Come here," she whispers.

Her hand is light on his shoulder, and then his chin, turning him towards her. Her mouth is lighter still, the pressure between them only increasing when he raises his hands to her cheeks and takes a step closer, pressing into her.

She is breathless when they part. "Basorexia. The overwhelming desire to kiss."

He thumbs her jaw and leans his forehead against hers.

"That is accurate."

He lets one hand drift down to her back, pulling her to him. He does not move his other from her cheek and through the tenuous connection, he can feel a spreading warmth.

Her hand rises to cover his and when she smiles, he can feel it.

"Vorfreude."

"Hmmm. I know that one." She tangles their fingers together when he draws her hand against his chest. "The joyful, intense anticipation when you picture a future full of happiness."

"Precisely," he murmurs, already kissing her again.


End file.
